Requiem of the Martyr
Requiem of the Martyr is a collection of poems by Remington Dalson. They often deal with the lack of heroism in supposed heroes, and work to glorify the common soldier if not the men they are commanded by. Because of the harsh tones often used to address her superiors, she signs her poems with the pseudonym Alhertine Stone. Requiem is a cathartic release for Remington, who often explains her disdain for others around her in a manner that she would not have the courage to do in person. =Sir Alexandros, Great Champion= And though the Light did shine upon many none could claim the love for which it showed Sir Alexandros. A man of noble carriage and just disposition; never faltering nor hesitating in his piety. He was the sceptor by which the Light enacted reform; a beacon by which it drew together a righteous host. If he were to make war he did so with great courage, and if he were to make peace he was fair and kind. From his loins sprang two noble champions, Darion and Renault, each images of their father's tenacity. But though he bore them, he could not give them his gift; he could not bestow upon them that which made him great. For Sir Alexandros was a man of whom equals were few and superiors were unheard of. And as this noble champion set forth with a host made of men and women born of righteous fury, did he encounter many hard trials and tribulations. When doubt entered the minds of his men he said: "Press on, my brothers. Fight on, my sisters, the Light guides us in this Darkness; it brings us through this chaos to a new day of peace." And so they fought, man and woman, as one against that which seemed by all accounts an insurmountable force. For Sir Alexandros, Great Champion of the Light, with his power; with his magnificent Ashbringer; with his divine purpose could not be stopped by man. Could not be stopped by death. Who but that noble man, poised so proudly atop his steed could rally his soldiers and bolster their morale with but a single wave of his hand. Who but that noble man, with his fiery hair as red as the Scarlet Flame; whose green eyes saw through treachery; whose noble brow held firm under pressure, could right all wrongs and emerge from any contest the victory? Oh, Great Sir Alexandros, the herald of salvation. As you lead so shall they follow. As you stand so shall they salute. Fear has no place in the Scarlet Crusade, for it has but one emotion to show in the face of adversity; in the face of sin; in the face of depravity and sorrow: Courage. And though our bones may weaken; our souls may shiver; our hearts clench. Courage is all that we shall know. And though our stomachs may knot; our constitutions may falter; our tears fall with alacrity. Courage is all that we shall know. And though our hands my go clammy; our insides come out; our minds leave us. our friends may turn against us; our loved ones betray us. Courage is all that we shall know. For it is courage above all else that is bequeathed to us by our Champion. Our fear begot his hope, our hope begot his pride, our pride begot his tenacity; his tenacity begot our resolve; or resolve begot his Courage. For Courage is the gift from Sir Alexandros, Great Champion to those lambs that heeded his call. It is a Courage that is unmitigated and pure. It is a Courage that we now hold as shields against the sabers of the Scourge. It is our Testimony: Let those that know weakness now know Strength. Let those that know hunger now know Contentment. Let those that know sorrow now know Vengeance. Let those that know fear now know Courage. Oh, Great Sir Alexandros, the strength by which we stand; the contentment with which we pray; the vengeance which we enact; and the Courage that we cherish. Through the gates of Hell we would follow you without fail! Sir Alexandros, Great Champion! The Savior of Humanity! =Legends, Heroes, Champions= Proudly they prance, like dancing stallions enraptured with their own sense of worth. Yet rarely they charge, in ordered battalions, to prevent the tides from turning worse. Merrily they boast, toasting and cheering, for they are heroes of the day. Never do they visit those who perished; not a flower left upon the grave. Legends, Heroes, Champions they all have a name but not one did I ever see lead the charge -- they give orders from far away. =Sir Eldanesh, Lord of No Virtue= Sir Eldanesh the Bold of the Scarlet Crusade! Savior of the masses, He'll rip your bodice, steal your heart, or simply slip into your chausses. But don't forget that this great man, and a Lord of Corin's Crossing. Was born a boy of little worth whose family had next to nothing. Such hubris and such brave words! Quite a hero, if you forget his shortcomings For it was at Corin that he was bested, and his men sent shouting and running His paramour, of little accord, a girl by the name of Marjhan, could be bedded by any, and was done so by many, who wore a coat of arms. But let's not quibble and argue over what makes this man so great. Instead let's watch him prance about on the wings of another's fate. The Ashbringer he'll never take, and a legacy he will never make, For under eaves or behind trees, he's taken an Undead harlot as his mate Sir Eldanesh the Bold of the Scarlet Crusader! Lord Kurnous of No virtue, We offer you, without further adieu, the Kingship of Plaguewood, too! =Champions of Justice= Pitched battle descends upon the ears of the masses, and pews become shelter from malicious retort. Stone blessed with the kiss of Divinity and Angels, lays desecrated by the blood of those who fought. Great zeal and pomp laces mundane actions, and words of might echo with a cowardly reverb, The Scarlets, Champions of Justice, fight with much fervor as upon a single enemy they converge. The ceiling he touches for he is a giant, and not a single blow from the enemy has struck true. This leader, a man of no small stature, is as agile as the sea is blue. But this sea I see is beyond redemption, and this sea I see is beyond compare. For the sea that I see is a sea of crimson, and the sea that I see makes me all the more aware. Be it Scourge or demon, or a simple crook; in the end the chord struck rings all the same. When there's violence and mayhem storming about, the Scarlet March is to blame. =The Harlot March= Patrols, they call them, as they march about garbed in the raiment of true soldiers. Everywhere they go, a ruckus and row for their words have no real clout. Thugs, I call them, laughing quite shameless as they prance onward in large numbers. They shout and demean, profane and scream and yet of offenses they are blameless. What jokes they are, these Scarlet Patrols. On what authority are they truly resting? When battle sounds, and the Scourge surrounds, they'll go running at speeds untold. Icecrown calls and they dare not answer, no that would be far too brave. Instead they patrol; what a merry stroll, with the grace and gaiety of a dancer. The Harlot March, how noble and true! Prostituting their honor for petty tasks. For what it's worth, at the time of their births, they came clawing out of an unwed shrew. =Sonnet of the Ashbringer= The world before him seemed quite grave, a would-be, washed up old knight. His son a member of the Scarlet Crusade, won his acclaim by his own might. He sat upon his old, tired ass, for he was without recourse. He summmoned about every lad and lass, to reclaim his son by force. And now his son lays dead and rotting and yet he's seen as a fine man. Arthas he swears he will be stopping, but only if they fight on Holy Land. Sir Tirion Fordring, Argent Crusader and Bringer of Ash! Let's hope that sword serves you better than it did its last. =Alone, she sits.= Alone, she sits. Sorrow has left this shell. Within her eyes; unspoken hell. And yet their void speaks more to us, of broken passion and forgotten lust. Her pallid flesh, long since gone cold her chilled complexion, smeared with kohl. Yet on she presses, no fear to her stride. Her shoulders firm; her head held high. How can she know, of what she is? Or what she was, when she lived? Each day she dies once again. Her suffering her only friend. Sorrow gone; she is no more. Alone, she sits. Who is she waiting for? =Tyrant or Hero?= Within the halls rested the voice of the people his demeanor quite grim from all that he had done. Inside the haunting Deadmines his fingers steeple as he waits for foolish adventurers to come. "Lap dogs, all of you," he says with complete aplomb, "Vile nobles should you blame,"he said and quickly stood. Out from the shadows his loyal followers plunged. Clearly he said, "None shall challenge the Brotherhood." As he fell, I had a thought, "Which of us was good?" =Eyeless Woman; Soulless Man= Their soft voices broke the silence; chilling my flesh, like the feeling of the wind's soft, sweet caress. The two of them stood out amongst the pious, though it was not their eyes that caused my bias. They believed in something, although I did not know it by name, but I knew they believed it in a manner that I'd never attain. She clung to him as the Moon does the night's sky; she was his voice -- he was her eyes. They were one. They were complete. They needed none. And I was weak. Jealousy roiled through me like a churning black sea, I could not resist it -- I had to speak. Words of loathing escaped me, mumbled and sullen. How dare they capture an emotion left best for the living? How dare they be happy with all that they had done? The King can forgive them -- of that, I'll have none. My fate was to live as theirs was to die. And yet I am the punished; their fate is sublime. They were whole. And I was empty. They were full. And I was weak. To hear them speak was to know true devotion, but to lack their feelings was to know despair I tried my best to turn away, I could not help but watch and stare. She leaned to him; he held her true. Her fingers kissed his shoulder with longing, their lust was surreal, I could feel its heat, a moth to the flame, was my calling. That Eyeless Woman. That Soulless Man. They were happy. And I was weak. =Neretzek, the God Lady= Writhing in lascivious enthrallment, the goddess assumes her throne, what boon she offers has oft' been sampled, by men 'pon high and low. This queen, of beauty there is no doubt, has tempted away the just, and brought to men many a smile by revealing her senescent bust. Their lust it consumes them in their frolick for they meet her in discord, and yield themselves as simple men to prostrate themselves upon her floor. Her floor, I say, is the best of all for it is upon any surface -- that which you desire, so shall she conspire, to deplete you of your urges. A bed, convenient, a shelf too drab, she'll take you by the trousers, and take away your innocence as you are enraptured by her poignant flower. Her power I say is that in her there is no shred of remorse, though age old, she canters on, and is often ridden as a horse. Her bridle, I say, now that is the question, for she has not an ounce of shame, so all that restrains her lust is the utterence of one name. But of that? Well, pfft! I shall not say, for he deserves abject respect, for who can blame that foolish man for falling for that vile strumpet. He forces her, or so she says, but that is pure hogwash. To force a trollop to have sex is like forcing rain to fall. But I shan't wonder -- no, I shan't speak for their meetings are so injustice. I'd sooner roast my innards and cease walking than witness their licentious lust. She claims me jealous, for that is crude, I ne'er have wanted her man. In fact most of those that I know, of him, have already had. But I shall not lower myself to speak in such coarse terms, for when you battle with a bug, at most you squash a worm. A worm, I say, and what a fool she is to speak so brazenly. There is no woman worse in the world than one who lacks complacency. Oh but, perhaps I speak too quick, for she is not one to complain. She'll slip her knickers off with alacrity for any who mutters her name. Pre-pubescent she called me! Hah! I'll have you know I am no child, but she is one to speak of age when by Cenarius she was defiled. I'll not speak further, though, I stop for my pen has become accursed, and I wish to jot out that Nereztek the Goddess, is little more than a pervert. =Wretched= This wretched creature that sits before me is truly without shame; she oscillates from cold to fawning and is as fickle as the rain. I have watched her day and night and still she has not proven true, for though her sins are not many, neither are they few. Her guilt is vast and worn as a shield, to protect against my stare, and never will she reveal her heart because it simply is not there. She is shallow and small, and fears all things, but acts as though she's proud, her conscience and morality are but figments of a shroud. I do not mean to say of her I know all things are unjust, but when she speaks she lacks compassion and cannot convey lust. So broken is she, so without purpose, why does she continue to exist? With every breath that she inhales, she wishes she would choke upon it. But still she sits and still she watches, attention to the fore. I watch myself within this pond and wish that I was no more. =Survive= I was born in Tyr's Hand, of this I have no doubt for the girl that went in is not she that came out. With my brothers and sisters I fought everyday and every night I fell to my knees to pray. "Light, bless we children, for we are your chosen, and let not our hearts become hollow or frozen. Let we that would suffer together die as one, and from our sacrifice might your triumph come." And one by one, my friends they faded Their hearts empty; their souls desecrated. We fought on further, we fought with pride. We fought for ourselves; we fought for the Light. They are no more now. It is only I. And I sit and wonder as I cry: Why did they fall, and I survive? =No More= I have never known sadness as I did, when my lord was my lord, no more. Category:Stories